


you should've got a better bed

by Larrant



Category: Bleach
Genre: Asphyxiation, Dom/sub Undertones, Gen, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 17:57:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12281589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larrant/pseuds/Larrant
Summary: Behind the main barracks their cute little seventeenth seat is helping the captain again, something about reorganizing the storage room. Low voices audible through the thin doors, a peal of laughter before it's quietened.A day in the life.





	you should've got a better bed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [klismaphilia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/klismaphilia/gifts).



 

The blood in his nails won't peel off. He's still trying to pick it out when he gets back.

Behind the main barracks their cute little seventeenth seat is helping the captain again, something about reorganizing the storage room. Low voices audible through the thin doors, a peal of laughter before it's quietened. He pushes the door open and walks in, forgets about the specks of brown trapped in the creases of his fingers.

Lifting a hand in greeting, Aizen doesn't turn from his examination of a particularly dusty record book. "Welcome back. How was your trip?"

"Pretty good." He pops the sound, rolling his shoulders. "Tha' creep Kurotsuchi might show up tomorrow though, mighta messed up another of his weird inventions on the mission."

Hinamori beams at him from the ladder she's clambered up, "I'm sure captain Kurotsuchi doesn't mind!" But even Aizen's exasperated laugh seems to agree the girl is being overly optimistic.

An undisturbed scroll catches his eye and he reaches two fingers to snag it from the shelf, scooting closer to Aizen in the process. He pulls a face in approximate approximation of the 11th division captain. "Prolly throwin' another fit in tha' weird underground lab o' his."

Indulgent smile on his mouth, the man raises an eyebrow and doesn't reply. Hinamori- blissfully ignorant- grabs a scroll from the pile on the floor. She's holding at least a dozen of them in her arms. Whole thing a precarious stack. "I'll be right back!" She declares, nearly drops a scroll on her way out. Gin follows the slim line of her shoulders until the door slides shut and she's scampered out. So he'll admit to a little biting jealousy. What he'd give for a little bit of that innocence. Or a chance to ruin it.

"She reminds me of you when you were younger."

The sentiment vanishes. Gin laughs, drops the scroll back onto the shelf. "Tha' so? Can't say I see the resemblance."

Aizen's smile is audible. "It wasn't that long ago."

Gin finds an old novel stuffed between archive records and abandons all pretense of helping out, sliding down to sit on the floor tp flip through the pages.

Reappearing a few minutes later with a basket full of persimmons for snacks, Gin watches the light as it keeps catching on the butterfly pin in Hinamori's hair, her beaming smile which seems brighter still. Watches Aizen chuckle and pat her on the head, reads his book and listens to them chatter about captain Komamura's calligraphy club and the Shinigami Women's Association and the proper time to pick plums in summer.

The second time she leaves, Gin opens his eyes a breadth wider. "Ya like her."

"I'm fond of her," not missing a beat, a measured response as the captain opens another book. "She has potential."

Gin spends a moment mulling on the thought, sucking the pulp out of a ripe persimmon. Concludes that it's funny because it's true. It'll be the death of the girl one day, years or decades from now, Gin will bet on that. He knows a mirror of himself when he sees one, even if the reflection's gone distorted itself.

Aloud he says nothing at all, closes his eyes and relaxes on the wooden floor. The choicest parts of the novel he ends up reading aloud as the hours tick past, if anything it keeps them all entertained. Beyond the window the sun bleeds the sky into orange, melting into red that puddles on the floor and the shelves. Hinamori leaves first with a wave of her arm and a grin as she's picked up by her friend, a sallow youth with blond hair that falls over one eye. After that it's just him and Aizen. Even the novel has been discarded, his eyes falling closed as he sits close to breeze passing through.

He notices indistinctly when Aizen begins to finish up. In the sky the moon has started to rise, light peering behind two grayish clouds and the lantern flame burned low. A whole evening vanished just like that.

"S'pose I'd better get goin'," he stretches, rising only to have a hand settle on his shoulder. Warm through his robes. Gin pauses, adds. "Unless ya want me ta stay."

"You don't have anything else to do tonight?" The care in his captain's voice weighs just the right amount. But then, there are fingers wrapped around his arm. The shape of them gripping a breadth too firm, a breadth more telling.

"Nah," Gin grins, cranes over to peer up at Aizen. "I'm all yours."

The man releases him with a smile. "Alright then."

Gin suppresses a sigh as the man goes back to reordering everything. And he'd thought they'd finished with that. He lounges on his back instead, looks up at the paneled ceiling.

When Aizen snuffs out the last lamp, he thinks his bones creak a little getting up.

Outside even all the red has melted away, the soft lull of crickets greeting them in the dark. There are scattered division members still working when they step out, nobody who gives them a second glance as Gin follows his captain back to his personal quarters. Maybe it's some kinda illusion the man's cast, maybe it's just the twilight that lets them pass unnoticed. Who knows how much the good captain's reputation would tarnish if people found he was taking advantage of his lieutenant. Or maybe not. He bets they'd chalk it up to Gin taking advantage.

It's not like they haven't already.

The moon is hidden behind a cloud when Gin shuts the sliding shoji doors behind them.

Gin doesn't get an invitation for tea- he's in Aizen's room before he knows it, examining a half-empty cup of cold matcha from the morning. He sniffs it with a frown before plopping down on the futon, yawn muffled in a sleeve. Meticulous as always, Aizen removes and folds his haori into a neat white square. "Would you like to take a bath? It's two rooms on your left."

"Nah," Gin picks at the tatami mat, remembering a moment later to take off his lieutenant badge and leave it haphazard on the floor. "Let's get down to the hanky-panky." And with his words dropping in the air he can _see_ the displeasure on Aizen's face. The man exhales, removes his glasses and places them a distance away enough that Gin won't accidentally break them with a flailing limb.

There's a hand settling on his chest and he expects the push- doesn't expect for it to be so hard, his shoulders hitting the mattress with a thump of jostled bone, a protesting 'ow' ignored. "Your vocabulary could use some work." Momentary amusement and then Aizen is over him, not bothering with the rest of his uniform. One hand at the sash at Gin's waist, his other hand closing around Gin's wrist before he can reach up to pull Aizen closer. "Not that fast," he chastises, expression curled in a smile, pulling Gin's wrist to his mouth, mouth closing about his thudding pulse.

"Your wrists are awfully thin." Teeth scraping over a vein, pressing a kiss to the heel of his palm. "That about you hasn't changed since we met." Wrist held down and Aizen's words moving to the sharp jut of Gin's collarbone, shaped in warm puffs of air on skin. And the smile is stretched on his lips and so horribly genuine. "The day I first saw you I thought you were a forest spirit, the moonlight in your hair, bird-like with your thin bones. It crossed my mind you'd disappear if I touched you."

Gin laughs. It's a jagged, unpleasant thing, some faint memory of hysteria that hasn't faded ever since he came into the fifth division. Responds by wiggling his fingers, the only motion he can make with his trapped hands. "Guess I'd be pretty solid fer a ghost."

Aizen hums, tongue licking a wet stripe following the line of Gin's collarbone. He feels the press of teeth before the pain, air escaping clenched teeth in a hiss- and he loses all his breath again as Aizen leans up, kisses him with his teeth and his tongue, deep until he can taste the blood. With a wild grin he licks the remnants from the man's lips, doesn't hesitate to swallow. Aizen utters a low sound of approval.

There's something slick and cold on Aizen's fingers when he parts Gin's legs, presses the pad of his thumb against Gin's entrance. He gets over the sensation by biting Aizen's lower lip until it bleeds. It's not conductive to Aizen being gentle. A moment later he's biting down a swear instead.

A stir of wretched anticipation keeps building below Gin's navel- his head tips back and his eyes slide to gaze at the expanse of wooden flooring, disjointed thoughts of woodlice and lanterns and rolled up futons crossing his mind. A stifled whimper caught in his mouth when Aizen presses in a second finger, down until the first knuckle.

In his stomach the roiling is getting heavier, struggling in his chest, up his throat. Copper still in his mouth. His hands grapple uselessly at the folds of a black robe, he's dragging Aizen down and kissing him again, breathing him like he's air and the air's all damp poison. At the back of Aizen's mouth he can taste the mild persimmons they'd eaten in the lull of the evening, the sweet tang of sake, every memory tainted. He barely notices as he's pushed back down, when Aizen presses one last kiss to the side of his mouth before moving away.

His breath catches in his throat at the first thrust, eyes suddenly wet, clouding his vision. He muffles a sound, buries it into the hollow of Aizen's throat. For one singularly bewildering moment he thinks he wants to tear out the man's throat with his teeth alone, bite out his vocal chords and swallow the blood-- a thought that snaps with the next thrust, the sharp tang of copper as he bites down on the curve of Aizen's shoulder. It's close enough. A whimper trapped behind his teeth he won't let escape.

The second thrust isn't any better. He loses count by the eighth and the burn doesn't fade, so he clutches Aizen and laughs, a touch of madness in the sound before it's torn out of him and all he's left with is his gasping breath and shaking hands, unmoored and anchored by this man's hands, pressing him down on the mattress, onto the cold wooden floorboards laid beneath.

It might be that Aizen is the only thing keeping the tattered parts of Gin together, paper pieces bound in a fluttering wind. Like he'll fall apart at any moment, or maybe that's the point.

Somebody's gasping and it must be him, the sound too loud for the silent room. Jarring unless he doesn't think about it- and he can't, he just thinks about how it keeps disturbing the racketing crickets outside. His thigh aches where Aizen is holding him, stuttered breaths and toes clenching thin air. Serves the crickets right.

Fingers smooth and warm on his neck. Barely any thought of them until they tighten, until he tries to breathe and the hand on his throat is pressing slow and sure and firm, cutting off his air supply and by then Gin can't breathe, not even to choke. He's shaking, everything trembling and if his body keeps on trying to thrash then it's only an automatic instinct and he can't help it. The body bearing down on his is heavy and Gin can't think about the bottomless hunger in Aizen's gaze, can't think about what he looks like underneath him, vision growing hazy even as the heat keeps building-

The pressure on his throat eases and Gin gasps for air. Takes in swallowing gulps of it with his mouth red and cheeks red and he imagines that under his skin the pooled blood has been brought to the surface, blotchy stains of life in purple and blue. God, he thinks, _god_.

The reprieve only lasts a moment.

Aizen's hand fits around the shape of the mark he's already made and even the choked gasp of breath is cut off as the grip around his throat tightens once more, that heady relief vanished for a bearing weight. Incoherently he wonders if it's even the asphyxiation at all, if it isn't Aizen's entire reiatsu that seems to be pressing him down into the ground.

Counting seconds turns woozy, he stops keeping track and it's only when Aizen thrusts into him one last time that he honestly registers the motion. The low, muted groan of pleasure is barely audible, he's not thinking about anything at all when the man's grasp finally loosens, pulling him up, sweat-slick and limp.

His eyes are straining and his cheeks are wet. He thinks he's crying and he's trying not to- god, he's trying, he must be. Aizen draws Gin into his arms, trembling and shuddering and there's something sticky clinging to his belly. He must have come without realizing. He can't think about it.

Aizen shushes him with soothing sounds, fingers running over his hair, something low and pleased in his throat. He feels the press of a kind mouth on his forehead.

Foggily Gin reaches out trembling hands, presses everything he can fit of him into the other man, skin on skin, like Aizen might be able to swallow him whole, or that Gin'll bury himself deep enough and everything else might just disappear. The man's body is warm, his embrace too tender. Gin has to be shivering by now. _God_ , he's trying not to.

He thinks he hears the man murmuring, so low he can't catch the words. The trembling subsides, his eyes remain clenched shut. There's some strange haze over his mind, blurring sound and motion. It feels good to let go so he does, and as his body relaxes so does his mind, slipping into some strange oblivion.

It must be past midnight when he wakes. The sheets are drawn up to his chin and he notices it in increments, the soft cotton against his cheek, the night breeze, the sound of crickets not so far outside. He blinks and turns his face to the moon outside the window. Curved origami crescent of it stares back, just paper that somebody hung in the sky.

He blinks again. Turns his face the other way and sees the faint silhouette of a shadow through the half shut door. Aizen's gone back to his paperwork. Or poetry. Or whatever it is he does past midnight.

Gingerly Gin sits up, presses his fingertips against the long marks of purple on his wrists. There's an ache in his back that'll only get worse when the sun rises tomorrow. But the stirring must make more noise than he thinks- he thinks he sees the silhouette through the door pause.

His robe falls over one shoulder as he gets up. Unbothered, he takes a moment to appreciate the lukewarm cup of tea set next to him as he narrowly avoids knocking it over. He's no longer in his shihakusho and he spares a thought to wonder what happened to the thing- feet momentarily unsteady as he pads across to the door and pushes it open. Aizen is setting his brush back down on a low table, waiting for the ink to dry on his work. His gaze tilts across to Gin, a flicker of- satisfaction, maybe something else unreadable- in his smile before he nods. "Is your body alright?"

Gin shrugs with the niggling realization that Aizen must have cleaned him as well. "Yep." His bare shoulder is cold where the breeze from the window keeps on blowing in- he can't be bothered to adjust the robe. "Though I wouldn't win tha' speech competition cap'n Unohana's hosting next week."

It hurts to speak at all and it shouldn't take a whole lot of pinpointing to know that his throat's scraped completely raw. Maybe he can go to the fourth division later, make some half-arsed excuse about why there are fingerprint marks shaped in purple and blue spreading over his throat. Half of the fourth division are already convinced he's a masochist.

But consequently, it's not like Aizen doesn't know any healing kido.

Aizen smiles and Gin might have been a little too loud with that thought. "I left the bruises. They look beautiful on you."

Maybe not to the fourth division after all.

The smile on his face feels uneven, maybe it's the sleep, how his cheek has been pressed into a pillow for the better part of several hours. If the man's told him to leave them he supposes it's wiser to obey. Maybe he'll wear a scarf, pretend like he's caught a cold. Besides, he has a picnic with Rangiku tomorrow, he can't let her see.

"Does it hurt?" Steps silent as he approaches Gin. Warm fingers have settled on his chin, tilting his head up so the man can better examine the bruises. They brush across his throat and Gin supposes he should be thankful for the care.

"Jus' peaky," Gin affirms, smile widening. Every sound edges on the verge of pain. He'll get used to it by tomorrow. Probably.

"Like a collar," Aizen runs a fingertip across the marks he's made, continuing as if Gin went unheard. Gin hears- _like you are owned_. He can't deny that, aloud or otherwise. Weirdly there's something queasy in his stomach, feeling as if he ate something rotted or infested and now he wants to throw up. Damn. "Sometimes I forget how pale you are. Every spill of colour is a flower on your skin."

It takes a moment for Gin to register the sharp blossoming of pain on his throat. Takes a moment more to realize that the man is pressing his fingers deeper into the bruise. Deeper than just curiousity, maybe if he presses hard enough the colour on Gin's skin'll start to change. With how bruises work it probably will.

Gin's forgotten how to flinch.

(he's thinking about flowers now, growing out of his marrow, bursting through rotted flesh to bloom in the moonlight- roses maybe, wildflowers and bluebells and purple salvias-)

His mouth opens to grab at some petty response. Like maybe Aizen should consider getting a leash for Gin. Not much point to a collar without a leash, and Aizen keeps on treating him like a pet anyway.

The idea takes a jittering step and he closes his mouth again. Maybe not. Knowing him, Aizen would actually do it.

"Would you mind if I had you one more time?" His captain's voice is low, smooth. Almost courteous.

Gin pauses.

Not like there's more than one answer he can give. That Aizen will accept. Sometimes he's gotta wonder why the man asks at all- and for a moment there's a laugh bubbling in his throat right before it bursts out, scraped and painful with the bruises on his throat. He tilts his cheek into the man's palm, mouth stretching wider. "Sure."

Honestly, he's probably a masochist by now.

Aizen smiles faintly, his hand combing through Gin's hair. He leans forward and very tenderly presses his mouth to Gin's mouth. For an indistinct moment Gin thinks the world is spinning on one broken axis. Imagines he's on the very verge of it, swaying, about to fall off the edge. Air rushing past his ears. Vertigo in his lungs.

He laughs quietly, fingers digging into Aizen's shoulders as he deepens the kiss.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at a point in Gin's timeline where he's not yet fully acclimated to being Aizen's lieutenant. There are parts where this comes through- various breaks in his character where a future Gin will have smoothed them over.
> 
> My Aizen voice is also terrible but I'm easing myself into it, ayy, apologies.


End file.
